


two paper airplanes flying

by dazedlight (opinionoutpost)



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, High School AU, Homophobia, Homophobic Slurs, Luke and Michael are Neighbors, M/M, Neighbors, like the tiniest bit of angst, very minor but they are there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 08:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3404255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opinionoutpost/pseuds/dazedlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When he enters his room, he checks Michael's room out of habit. The lights are off and the window's closed, but still there's a paper plane resting on top of a pile of forgotten laundry. He unfolds it carefully, unsure as to what Michael could possibly have to say."</p>
<p>Or, Michael and Luke are neighbours, and, to get his attention, Michael starts sending Luke cute notes in the form of paper airplanes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	two paper airplanes flying

**Author's Note:**

> this is the longest thing i've ever written and my brain is honestly fried
> 
> i know it's in the tags but if you are easily triggered by homophobic slurs please do not read this fic. there are only three instances where they are used but i don't want any of you upsetting yourselves for the sake of a silly fic. take care of yourselves cuties!!
> 
> inspired by [this blurb.](http://oholyhood.tumblr.com/post/91733794863/but-boy-next-door-michael-cliffords-house-being)

Luke is not popular. He's not exactly unpopular either; he just sort of flies under the radar, sometimes unseen, definitely unheard. He doesn't mind, not really. It's made high school easy for him. Sure, he wishes he had more friends so he didn't have to sit alone at lunch all the time but if the alternative is getting harassed every day by the meathead rugby players like some of the less fortunate, he'll take the solitude. 

Some days he prefers the seclusion, tucking himself into a quiet corner of the library and finishing up homework assignments early, the sounds of his schoolmates roughhousing distant background noise. He'd be lying if he said he never thought about joining them, being a normal teenager for once. He likes noise, likes the rambunctiousness, likes that fun, party atmosphere you get around the popular kids – or just any solid group of friends, really. But he doesn't fit in anywhere right now, and he's – well, maybe he's not content but he's accepted this is how his last year of high school is probably going to be, same as all the previous years. Maybe he's a late bloomer, he muses, and everything will be different in college, where he'll have the opportunity to reinvent himself and become that outgoing, fun guy he secretly thinks he is. It's all just a waiting game, and if there's anything Luke is especially good at, it's waiting.

He's always waited for everything. Luke lets life push him around because it's easier than fighting against what's inevitable. He figures if this is the what the universe intended to happen, he shouldn't try to change it. So he waits for life to happen to him and hopes for the best. Most of the time he doesn't get the best, but maybe the universe is just stocking up a lot of karma so the rest of his life is a breeze. That's what he hopes anyway. And all he can really do at this point is hope.

*

He used to be really into skating so he sometimes cuts through the skate park on his way home from school to catch glimpses of scabbed-up kids hurtling down ramps at terrifying speeds, all trying to perfect that one trick, that one twist. He usually ends up staying longer than he intends, setting up near the edge on a stretch of grass by the fences pretending to study but actually waiting for that clear moment when someone flies through the air, suspended in the sky for one magical moment before they come crashing down, either eating asphalt or gliding to a stop.

But today he fell asleep during his spare block and didn't hear the bell so he's late, rushing to get home. The skate park makes him pause and he stares almost wistfully at it before sighing and picking up his pace. 

He's only about three houses from home when he sees them – his favourite crew, hanging around just outside his house. They're wrestling and shoving at each other, loud shouts echoing in the empty street. He freezes, tries to figure out an alternative route home but he's literally _three damn houses away_ and he really doesn't want to walk all the way around the block just to avoid a couple jabs to his stomach and probably a mouthful of homophobic slurs. Maybe he'll get lucky, and they'll ignore him like they have been lately and he'll get home unscathed. He doubts it but lets himself hope.

As he approaches, they don't seem to notice him, continuing their fight as he sails past, almost in the clear. He's about to turn up his driveway when he hears it.

“Oi, faggot!”

His chest deflates, and he turns wearily, figuring it's better to face it now than at school where everyone will see them beat the shit out of him.

“We missed your pretty face at lunch today,” the smallest of the five says as he swaggers up to him. It's irrational for Luke to be afraid of this guy, he knows; he has at least half a foot on him and is considerably broader. Honestly, this guy kind of looks like a limp noodle but he's got muscle to back himself up, his four friends shorter but sturdier than Luke is.

He chooses not to reply, thinking maybe they'll call him a faggot a couple more times and get bored.

“What, can't talk?” he sneers. “Throat sore from sucking too much dick?”

He's heard this all before before so he just stands there, his shoulders hunched in an effort to make himself seem as small as possible. He's tried to explain that he's bi, not gay, but no one seems to listen so he's basically given up and just lets everyone assume he's only interested in men. The guy hurls a couple more insults at him, trying to rile him up probably, but he just lets them wash over him and hopes the comments are all that's in store for today. He's kind of right; after a few more weirdly graphic remarks about gay sex, the guy tires himself out and signals for his crew to leave.

“Fucking faggot,” he scoffs and spits on him; his saliva splatters across his ducked head and drips onto his cheek. The guy bumps him with his shoulder, hard, and his friends follow suit until there's a dull throb aching there. He rubs at the tender spot and checks to make sure the group is gone before walking stiffly up the driveway and into his house.

Once inside, he heads upstairs and to the bathroom, tugging off his shirt along the way. He washes the spit off his face before checking his arm, probing it carefully to judge how large the bruise is going to be. He thinks it'll probably span the majority of his bicep and maybe a little onto his shoulder which means he's going to be hiding in sweaters for at least a week. He groans and trudges into his room, grabbing a shirt off the floor and pulling it on before flopping backwards onto his bed.

There was a time when Luke had friends and a social life and didn't get picked on for liking guys and was just generally not one hundred percent apathetic about everything going on in his life. He'd stumbled into high school, gawky and awkward with a bad haircut, unsure about basically everything but especially himself. He'd somehow wedged his way into a small group of older kids, who'd taken pity on him and for some reason become his friend. They'd gone to gigs almost every weekend and spent the rest just hanging out, eating bad food and shit-talking the bands that had sucked that evening.

But all his friends were older and, once they graduated, Luke was alone again. They still talk and see each other sometimes, but they're busy and it's not quite the same.

He sighs and rolls over to grab his bag, pulling out his phone and a book. Reminiscing about the past doesn't make him feel any better so he plugs his phone into the dock next to his bed and hits shuffle, settling in as Billie Joe sings about a boulevard of broken dreams.

*

He wakes with a jolt, his book sliding off his chest and landing with a loud _thud_ as it hits the floor. He must have been really out, as there's a plate of food on his dresser with a note from his mom.

_Working the graveyard shift tonight, don't stay up too late!!_

_Love you,  
Mom xxxx_

He smiles at the note, tucking it into his back pocket as he picks up the plate and shuffles downstairs towards the kitchen to heat it up. While it's spinning away in the microwave, he heads back up to his room, organizing things as best he can even though it'll be messy again in a couple days. He opens the window to get rid of the stale air and feels a little better, looking at his slightly cleaner room. He leans against the window frame, staring across the way almost directly into his neighbour's room. The houses in this neighbourhood were cookie cutter – built in one fell swoop and sandwiched together. If he wanted to, he and the neighbour could probably easily toss a ball back and forth between their two windows. Not that Luke would do that, seeing as he's never talked to his neighbour before. Someone new moved in a couple years ago, but Luke had never bothered to make friends as the last family had been reclusive and more than little rude when his mom had made him bring over a housewarming gift. 

From the small snapshot of it he could see, the room parallel to his seems to be a bedroom, not too different from his own. There are lots of posters of bands he's never heard of and lots he has, as well as some of weird animated characters dressed in robes and armour, probably from a video game. Everything is slapped up haphazardly, overlapping each other with no sense of order. He spots a guitar propped up in the corner by the door, mirroring his own. He's peering out the window, trying to figure out the model when the microwave starts beeping and he jumps, whacking his head on the frame. He yelps, rubs at the spot before loping down to the kitchen, pushing aside thoughts of his unknown neighbours.

*

He dicks around for awhile, playing video games and flipping through TV channels until his eyesight is blurry and his head is heavy. He drags himself upstairs, flicking off lights as he goes until he gets to his room, where he doesn't bother to turn on the light, just flops face first onto his bed. He's rolling onto his back when he hears a crunch and halts, prays to God it's not something important. He flails for the light, finally yanking the chain on his bedside table a little too aggressively and almost sending it off the edge. He roots around his sheets, looking for the crushed item, and instead finds a... paper airplane?

It's crumpled but definitely has an airplane-like shape. He just kind of stares at it for a moment, confused. He glances around his room as if it can explain why there's a paper plane on his bed and how it got there. There's something scribbled on it, and he's curious enough as it is so he unfolds it delicately as if it might disappear if he's not careful. In a messy scrawl, someone's written “ _you don't deserve the shit you get_ ” and that's... well, it is nice and makes Luke's heart flutter a bit but it's also very confusing and more than little embarrassing, thinking about what happened earlier today. He looks around his room again, this time kind of helplessly. His eyes land on his open window and shoot up to his neighbour's window. It's cracked open a bit, which it definitely wasn't earlier, if he's remembering correctly. It's not like it would be impossible for someone with relatively good aim to throw this thing a couple feet into his room...

He shakes his head. This is stupid. He's never even met his neighbours; why would one of them be sending him nice messages like this for no reason? He's just tired and thinking irrationally. Someone probably slipped it into his books at school or something. Either way, he appreciates the sentiment and it certainly makes him feel better. He stuffs the note into the top drawer of his nightstand before clicking off the light and tucking up under the covers, a small smile fixed to his face.

*

School goes surprisingly well for Luke the next day. He feels good about the chem test he writes in first period, and the history paper he was sure he bombed comes back with a neat little 'A' tucked into the corner with a smiley face. Apart from a few under-the-breath insults, the bullies don't bother him much, and a cute girl from homeroom sat with him at lunch. Sure, they hadn't talked much, but it was nice to just have company. All in all, it's a good day, and he appreciates it. When last period ends, he's smiling, the seemingly permanent knot of anxiety positioned between his shoulder blades uncoiling.

He practically floats home, happy it's the weekend, happy nothing supremely shitty happened today, just happy in general. He makes a beeline for his room, only stopping to give his mom a peck on the cheek before disappearing. Tossing his bag to the side, he nabs his guitar and flops onto the bed, plucking away, just playing bits and pieces of songs. He's not in the mood to write today, just content to mess around, singing along when he feels like it, laughing at himself when his voice occasionally cracks. He can hear his mom down the hall in the office, humming along to the songs she knows, and it makes him smile even wider. For once he's not afraid to be loud, and he sings at full volume, instead of the meek, half-whisper he usually goes for even when no one's home. It feels good, to go all out like this. He feels the most comfortable this way, with a guitar in his hands, just singing whatever comes to mind.

“What's got you in such a good mood?” his mom asks as she's passing by his room, pausing to lean against the door frame.

He shrugs, focuses on the fret board while he plays a little riff to avoid eye contact. “Just had a good day.”

He glances up in time to catch her fond smile. “That's good to hear.” She hesitates in the doorway, and Luke makes an effort to look at her and grin, big and cheesy. She laughs and takes a step into his room to give his shoulder a tight squeeze. He has to grit his teeth as her thumb digs into the bruise from yesterday, but she doesn't seem to notice his wince and he's relieved.

“Your dad and I are going to a dinner party tonight, so we'll be home late, okay?” she says with another smile. Luke nods, and she leans down to press a kiss to the top of his head before heading off to her own room to get ready. Once she's out of earshot, he lets out a little groan of pain, rubbing tenderly at his sore arm.

When he started coming home with bloody noses and bruised ribs every other day, it became too hard to hide it from them, so Luke told his parents all about the harassment and the slurs. It wasn't ideal, coming out to his parents because he was getting the shit kicked out of him every day, but he guessed it had to be done. They'd been much more concerned about his safety than his sexuality, which he had expected, but it was a relief to hear it nonetheless. They'd taken it to the school, who'd suspended the lot who picked on him for two weeks. His parents had been furious, demanding they be expelled, but Luke had told them it was fine, that everything would be okay and that they didn't need to worry. 

He wasn't completely wrong. When the bullies returned, the physical abuse lessened but the verbal certainly didn't. They'd shout crude things in the hall, graffiti some variation of “gay” on his locker at least once a month, and generally make his life hell. It used to bother him a lot more than it does now, mostly because the group is largely uncreative. You can only be called a homo so many times before it loses its meaning.

That's not to say the words don't hurt; they do, some days more than others. But he can at least effectively hide the marks the insults leave and not worry his parents. He's always been a good son; he doesn't want his parents to worry if they don't have to. So he doesn't tell them about the verbal abuse and he hides the physical stuff decently well, he thinks. And he's so close to graduation; he can deal with this for a little longer.

He futzes around on his guitar for the better part of an hour, until his parents call out a goodbye. He waits until he hears the car pull out of the driveway and down the street before he's shoving his shoes on and grabbing random textbooks, headed to the skate park. He spots his board poking out of his closet and stops, thinks about hauling it out and bringing it with him. He doesn't have to actually use it, he reasons, and it might make him look less creepy, hanging around the park but not actually doing any skating. But then someone might ask him to join and it's been a long time since he's been on a board, let alone in front of people, and he thinks better of it. 

He weaves his way through the streets, popping up just outside the park fence. He tosses his books over and makes an effort to hop it, only landing a little clumsily on the other side. It's busier than usual, the mild weather and the pending weekend drawing a different crowd. There are more kids, more bruises and cuts and squawked “fuck!”s filling the arena as they crash, followed by laughs and a couple teasing comments that are brushed off. 

Luke settles on his little patch of grass and opens up a book, peering over the top, and watches as a kid with shaggy black hair rockets up a ramp and does a neat little twist combination on his bike that earns him some scattered applause and encouraging shouts. He flies up the other side, does another quick spinning trick that elicits another round of whoops and claps. He comes to a stop at the base of the ramp and bows, soaking up all the attention with a gloating grin. Luke's seen him around before, knows he's good even if he doesn't know much about bikes and tricks. He's a bit of a showboat but he deserves it; Luke's seen him break his arm three times in the past year so he definitely works hard.

A guy with bright red hair appears at the fence, attempts to jump it, but his foot catches at the last second and he almost eats dirt before catching himself. The kid with the bike sees him and laughs at his almost-wipe out, waves him over. The guy slides down the ramp and pulls his friend in for one of those one-armed bro hugs, clapping him on the back and muttering something in his ear that makes the shaggy-haired guy laugh hard enough that his eyes crinkle at the corners. It feels weird to watch what seems like such a private moment of pure friendship, like it's too intimate to be on display. It makes something twist in Luke's stomach. He thinks it might be envy, looking at these two random guys, joking easily with each other, so comfortable. He misses that.

With that, he decides that's probably enough for the day, and he packs up his books before heading home. He wanders the streets for awhile while the sun sets behind him. He's lived in this neighbourhood all his life so everything is familiar and his plan to let himself get lost is quickly derailed when he finds himself just a couple houses down from his own. He sighs and lets himself in, dragging his feet to his room. He might call Jack or maybe Alex tonight, see if either of them have time to catch up. Not that Luke has anything to share but they're both usually good for a story, and Luke just really needs to not be himself for a little while.

He's picking up the phone, dialling, when he sees it, resting neatly on the edge of his bed like it was carefully placed there instead of possibly thrown across the small stretch of land between his house and his neighbour's.

There's no way this one came from school; it's pristine and no where near his bag so it has to be from an outside source. He hangs up the phone and picks it up eagerly. As excited as he is, he unfolds it carefully, not wanting to damage it in any way.

“ _you have a great singing voice,_ ” is what this paper airplane reads. It brings a blush to Luke's cheeks, knowing that someone outside of his family heard him sing, _liked_ hearing him sing. He looks up, scanning his room as if it could magically present him with a clue as to who is sending him these notes. Everything looks as it always does, except this little compliment cradled in Luke's hands, making his heart race and his cheeks flush. He hurriedly tucks the note into the drawer of his bedside table with the first airplane and smiles. He doesn't really care who's sending these airplanes, he decides; he just doesn't want them to stop.

*

The weekend passes by uneventfully, as does the majority of the week and Luke finds himself facing another Friday much sooner than he expects. He's dragging his feet a bit if he's honest, more reluctant than usual to get to school. There haven't been any paper planes all week, and Luke's been trying to stay home almost every day, trying to catch the mystery pilot in the act.

But he's never been a particularly good actor and his fake cough is far from convincing so he's off, trudging his way to school like every other day. He reminds himself that this week has been generally good – no beatings, limited name-calling, and the girl who'd sat with him at lunch last Friday joined him a couple more times this week. There's no reason to think today will be any different. He's skeptical – he's learned to always be a little skeptical of anything vaguely positive happening to him – but he hopes anyway.

And his hopes are not ill-placed. The girl from homeroom joins him again at lunch. He smiles up at her when she sits down but doesn't say anything, figuring she'll speak if she wants to make conversation. He goes back to his notes, scribbling in a few extra reminders in the margins. He's focused – maths is killing him this year and he'd like to do well – but he hears a sharp intake of breath that causes him to lift his head again.

The girl seems to be holding her breath with her arm extended, holding out a bright yellow flyer to Luke. He glances at it, then up at the girl, confused. She shakes her arm a little, gesturing for him to take it. He does, cautiously, as if this might be a joke. A quick scan reveals it's an invitation to a party that night at a classmate's house he's heard of but can't put a face to. He looks up at her again and, when he doesn't say anything, the girl let's out a huge rush of breath.

“There's a party tonight at Mitchell's house for all the seniors and it would be really great if you could come,” she says. She's speaking so fast all the words kind of run together, and it takes Luke a moment to process what she's saying. When he doesn't respond immediately, the girl blasts off another rapid fire statement, again barely pausing to take a breath.

“I mean, you don't have to come if you don't want to but it's kind of the first all seniors thing the class is putting on so it'd be really cool if we could get everyone to go.”

He just sits there, staring at this piece of paper, shocked and a little dumb-founded until a thought suddenly occurs to him.

“Where do you live?” he asks, and he knows the question is abrupt and off-topic but he has to know.

“Um, over on Sunset Drive in Aberdeen,” she answers uncertainly. “Why?”

Luke feels his heart sink at her answer. Aberdeen is on the opposite side of town from where he lives so she can't be the paper plane deliverer. “Uh, nothing,” he stammers with a shake of his head. “I was just wondering if I could catch a ride but you live on the other side of town.” He laughs awkwardly to cover his lie, and the girl, to his relief, smiles.

“Does that mean you'll come?”

He examines the flyer again. His gut twists with anxiety at the thought of going but it also sends a little thrill of excitement up his spine. His old group of friends used to go to parties sometimes but now they're always filled with their college friends and Luke never knows anyone. It'd be nice to go somewhere that's at least a tiny bit familiar.

“Yeah,” he decides. “Yeah, I'll be there.”

The girl actually beams at him. “Really? That's great. That's so great!” She's so happy and Luke doesn't really understand why but he smiles anyway. 

“I guess I'll, um, see you there?” she says as she stands, hovering at the edge of the table. He nods, and she grins before squeaking out a cute little “bye!” and a wave and leaving.

He stares at the flyer in his hands, slightly crumpled on one side where he'd been clutching at it. Maybe things are looking up.

*

He's too jittery to pay attention in any of his classes the rest of the day. The moment the final bell rings, he's up and out of his seat, practically running home. He cuts through the skate park but doesn't stop, just wants to get home as soon as possible. He hasn't been out in a long time, and he wants to look nice, make a good first impression. His graduating class is huge and he definitely doesn't know everyone so this is an opportunity to make some new friends. He's excited and terrified and he can't wait and he kind of doesn't want to go. It's all confusing but he pushes it aside and tries to focus on the excitement more than anything else.

Once he's home he tears up the stairs, relieved to find no one is home yet. He tosses his bag on his bed and quickly strips down before heading to the bathroom to shower, body thrumming. He sings loud, cheesy show tunes while he shampoos his hair, not caring if anyone can hear him. Then he's climbing out, still humming to himself and towel-drying his hair, pulling on a pair of sweats and old t-shirt as he wanders back to his room. 

He stares down his closet and tries to think of anything remotely cool he has to wear. He wears his school uniform five days a week so his closet is limited, mostly just t-shirts and other comfy clothes. He has maybe two nicer, button-down shirts he wears for Christmas dinner and the like but he hasn't tried them on in awhile and he's shot up almost a foot this year alone so they probably don't fit. He runs a hand through his wet hair, making it stand straight up before drooping back on his forehead. With a sigh, he starts rooting through the mess of clothes before unearthing a pair of skinny jeans he forgot he even owned. He tugs them on and – yeah, he can work with this. He takes a step towards the mirror and hears a tear and his heart sinks. Looking down, he sees a hole ripped at the knee. He sticks his fingers in, working it until its frayed and a little more worn-looking, decides he likes it better that way and does the same to the other knee. He turns back to his closet and shuffles through his shirts before settling on a plaid shirt his mom had bought him for his birthday close to two years ago. It was too big at the time, but now when he pulls it on, he finds it fits near perfectly, his shoulders filling out the sleeves properly. He fiddles with the buttons, doing them up all the way and then opening up a few five times before he settles on leaving it open, thinking it'll look less weird to do it up later than undo. 

With the outfit solved, he turns to the mirror to sort out his hair. Normally he kind of lets it do whatever, enjoying the extra ten minutes of sleep instead of fussing with it. It dries mostly straight with his fringe always a bit of a floppy mess. He used to take his mom's straightners to it every day but that got to be too much work in the mornings. He thinks about doing it again but remembers how bad his haircut had been back then and decides against it. Frustrated, he runs his fingers through his fringe and it sticks up again. He kind of likes it, he realizes, and does it again when it starts to fall back to it's normal position. He heads to the bathroom, roots around in the cupboards until he finds his mom's hairspray and some sticky paste he thinks might help. He picks up a bit of the stuff and rubs it between his palms before running it through his hair, watching, pleased, as his hair stays in a semi-vertical direction. He finishes it off with hairspray and hopes for the best.

He'd been a bit overzealous and had gotten ready too early with still over an hour before he'd have to leave. He flops onto his bed and tries to distract himself, picking up books and making attempts at homework before shoving everything to the side when nothing holds his attention. He tidies a little, shoving all the clothes he'd thrown around his room back into the closet but that only takes a couple minutes, and he soon finds himself with jittery hands. He picks up his guitar and plucks aimlessly at it. He can't settle on any one song so he lets himself transition between them whenever he feels like it. The clock blinks mockingly at him every time he glances over, the minutes seeming almost stagnant, and he lets out a frustrated sigh, tossing his guitar to the side and standing.

He starts pacing, combing his fingers through his hair and then immediately checking his reflection to make sure he didn't mess anything up. He keeps checking the time every couple minutes even though he knows it only makes everything seem slower. He's about to give up and just leave early when he sees it, out of the corner of his eye.

The paper plane drifts through his window and lands at his feet soundlessly. He stares at it for a moment, unbelieving, before snapping his head up to the window. There's no one there but the window is open and the lights are on. Someone's home.

He scoops the note up and unfolds it hurriedly.

“ _your hair looks sexy pushed back ;)_ ” is scribbled down, along with a crude drawing of a girl with two holes in her shirt where her breasts would be that Luke assumes is supposed to be Regina George. He laughs as heat rises to his face, blushing at the compliment, and looks up to his neighbour's window to see the red-haired boy from the skate park. His eyes are wide as they connect with his and his mouth forms a perfect little 'o' as he flicks his wrist, releasing the paper airplane in his hand, sending it sailing into Luke's room.

It honestly feels like time stops for a moment as they both watch the plane cut through the space between their houses. It glides effortlessly for a moment before wobbling as the wing clips the windowpane. It crashes at the foot of Luke's bed, and he can't help but stare at it before flicking his eyes back to the red-haired boy, who's still stuck in the same position. He's glaring at his hand, horrified, as if it's betrayed him somehow and then he's glancing at Luke, looking even more horrified, and it makes him want to curl up and die.

They're stuck like that, in some sort of bizarre showdown, for what feels like an eternity before the red-haired boy declares a very loud, succinct, “Fuck” and buries his face in his hands. Luke would laugh if the whole situation wasn't so fucking weird that it's causing his brain to short-circuit. The boy leaves the window, hands still covering his face, and, after he doesn't return, Luke thinks its safe to slink over to wear the note is lying innocently on the floor, pick it up, and read it.

“ _no seriously your hair looks good like that_ ” 

He can't help the smile that tugs at his lips and he checks the window again, just to make sure the boy's not still there, watching him read his note. The lights are still on in his room but it doesn't seem like he's going to surface any time soon so Luke just tucks the note away with the other ones and heads downstairs to let his mom know about his plans for the evening.

*

By the time Luke finds the right house, the party is picking up. He feels a rush of relief knowing he's not too early, doesn't look too eager, and feels the knot between his shoulders loosen. Even though the rest of the street is quiet, he double-checks the address as he approaches the door, which is flanked by two beefy, older-looking guys he's never seen before. He tightens up again as he nears the duo, but all they do is ask him for a couple dollars to cover the kegs in the back. He complies, pulling out his wallet and shakily handing over a bill, which one guy scrunches between his thick fingers before waving him through.

Inside everything seems louder and smaller. The walls thrum with the rich bass thumping from the speakers and there's people in every available space. He scans the crowd for a familiar face but everyone is packed so tightly together, bodies swaying and grinding, that everything blurs. Everyone is too close and he can't breathe, feels the regret simmering in his stomach. He turns to leave but the door's not where it was just a minute ago; the crowd ebbs and flows, rocking him in a way he think might be calming if the thick heat from too many bodies and the stench of stale beer and sweat hanging heavy in the air weren't distracting him. He's taller than most of the people here, which should make him feel less like he's drowning, but he it doesn't. He's breathing hard through his nose, trying to gulp in some fresh air but it's not working and the room is spinning and he feels kind of nauseous.

“Just let the crowd carry you,” someone says. He looks down, and it's some girl wearing orange lipstick and about a million of those neon, glowing necklaces and bracelets. She looks out of place, more suited for a rave or a night club maybe rather than some high school party. She smiles dreamily up at him and sways with the crowd, demonstrating for him. 

“It'll take you where you want to go,” she informs him solemnly and then she herself is off, folding herself into the sea of people. The only thing visible are her glow stick-adorned wrists, swinging above the crowd, and Luke tracks them until they disappear into the crowd, in a haze of confusion. Even still, he finds himself following her advice even though his heart is still racing. He doesn't care where he goes, just as long as he finds someone he knows, or at least a place he can goddamn _breathe_.

He closes his eyes and lets the crowd push him from space to space until he miraculously feels cool air surrounding his body. He opens his eyes and finds himself in the kitchen and breathes a sigh of relief. There are a couple people off to the side playing a rowdy game of quarters but other than that it's empty, and he's relieved.

He takes a moment and leans against the counter, alternating between watching the mob of people move to the music and the guys bouncing quarters off the table, shouting and slapping hands when someone misses, groaning and making a big show of drinking when someone gets it in. He thinks about asking to join, is even about to start over, when the side door slides open and in trips the red-haired neighbour, looking slightly dishevelled and more than a little annoyed at his friends, one he recognizes from the skate park and another he's never seen before with light brown hair held off his face with a bandana. 

“Come on, Mikey, it's fucking funny; you can't blame me for laughing.” The skate park friend tosses the remark over his shoulder as he heads towards the kitchen, bandana friend following close behind. Skate Park Friend sees Luke and nods, and Luke wants to do the same to, you know, be casual, cool, whatever, but instead he raises his hand and gives a stiff, stilted wave that makes his cheeks burn. Bandana Friend mimics the wave in a much more relaxed fashion and smiles.

“Hey, I'm Ashton,” he says, sticking out his hand, which Luke takes and fully expects to shake but instead he's pulled into a quick hug. He's stiff and definitely awkward but Bandana Friend doesn't seem to mind or notice because when they separate, he still shoots him a smile before joining his friend by the fridge.

“It's not fucking funny, it's fucking embarrassing,” he hears the neighbour boy saying as he enters the room. Luke tries to shrink himself into the counter but it doesn't work. He spots him and freezes, eyes practically popping out of his head.

“ _Shit_ ,” he says, but it comes out more like a hiss, and Luke kind of wants to die. Skate Park Friend, who is in the process of creating some sort of elaborate drink that involves way too much hard liquor, hears the cussing and tilts his head back.

“What?” he asks, and the neighbour bugs his eyes out even more if possible while gesturing helplessly at Luke who's still trying to force his body into the marble counter top.

“What?” his friend repeats, and he just keeps gesturing, his motions growing more erratic while his mouth flops open and closed as if he's trying to say things but nothing is working.

Something must click because the friend's eyes widen with realization before he's laughing, wheezing and shaking his head.

“No fucking way,” he cries. “I can't believe this!”

“What?” Ashton asks, looking at Skate Park Friend, who is now doubled-over, then at neighbour boy who's glaring at them both.

Neighbour boy looks pissed but he's at least stopped flailing his arms around and his eyes have returned to a normal size. Luke is glancing between the three of them, confused, and still wishing the ground would swallow him whole when the friend finally straightens, wiping a tear from his eye as he approaches Luke. He slaps Luke on the back before pulling him into a weird, one-armed, side-hug and introducing himself.

“I'm Calum,” he says and smiles that crinkly-eyed smile Luke saw that day at the skate park. “That's Ashton.”

“We know, we've met,” Ashton cuts in with a roll of his eyes.

“This is my friend, Michael,” he barrels on, ignoring Ashton and gesturing to the neighbour boy, “and he has, uh, apparently been sending you little love notes?”

Luke's face ignites and judging by the groan and the shit-eating grin on Calum's face, his words have exactly the impact he was hoping for.

“For Christ's sake, Calum, they're not – they're not _love_ notes,” the neighbour – Michael splutters.

“Right, right, they're just friendly compliments, is that it?”

“That's exactly what they are,” Michael huffs defiantly. He catches Luke's eye and says, “Right?” as if they're on the same side.

“Right.” He finds himself agreeing, still confused. Michael tilts his chin up at Calum triumphantly.

“If they're just friendly notes then why don't I ever get any?” Calum pouts, slinging an arm around Luke's shoulders. “Am I not your best friend, Clifford?” He drapes himself dramatically over his body, and Luke just sort of lets him, not sure how he fits into this whole debacle but hanging on for the ride anyway.

“No, that's Ashton,” Michael shoots back, finally entering the kitchen and pulling the boy off Luke. “Now shut up and pour me a drink.”

Calum makes a grandiose bow. “Your wish is my command,” he announces before turning back to his concoction, which he sips, winces, and shrugs. He pours the mix into a couple shot glasses, and hands one each to Michael and Ashton before pushing one over to Luke. He stares at the murky green swirling in the glass before raising an eyebrow at Calum, who winks before knocking it back. Michael and Ashton follow suit, although with less enthusiasm and without the wink. They both grimace as they set their glasses back down, turning to stare expectantly at Luke.

“Uh,” he says, looking down at the drink again.

“It tastes like shit but you only have to do it once and he'll leave you alone,” Michael supplies helpfully while Calum grins at him with something akin to puppy-dog eyes.

“Uh,” he repeats, still uncertain.

“It won't kill you,” Ashton chirps.

“Reassuring,” Luke mutters and is surprised when they laugh, a warmth spreading through him at the sound. He stares at the drink before resigning with a shrug, knocking the whole thing back in one fell swoop. Michael's right; it does taste like shit, so many different flavours swirling around in his mouth. It burns the whole way down, leaving a different kind of warmth in his stomach that also radiates through his chest.

“Oh, my God,” he gasps out once it's down, his eyes watering. “What the hell is this?”

“Everything but the Kitchen Sink,” Calum declares proudly. He loops his arm through Ashton's and places a sloppy kiss on his cheek that Ashton winces at, shoving at him and telling him to piss off.

“Come on, boys, there are girls to dance up on,” he crows, ignoring Ashton's protests as he sets off toward the living room where the sea of people is still rolling. Ashton makes a last ditch effort to escape, reaching for Luke's hand but Calum is too quick, already dragging him off and disappearing in the crowd. Their absence leaves him with Michael and his palms instantly dampen. He opens his mouth a couple times, trying to force words out but Micheal is resolutely looking literally anywhere but at him and he wants to die, he quite literally would rather die than be in this situation right now.

“I'll stop sending them or whatever, if you think it's weird,” Michael finally says. He's staring at the pristine white cupboards instead of at Luke so he can't really see his face, just the smooth curves of his profile.

“What?”

“The notes,” he says flatly, still staring firmly at those cupboards. “They're dumb, I'll stop.”

“No,” Luke squeaks, which is, you know, horribly embarrassing but he's too panicked to really register anything. “I – I like them.”

Michael's eyes flick over to him for a second, so fast Luke almost doesn't catch it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He takes a deep, shaky breath before continuing. “They're the best part of my day or my week or whatever. No one tells me stuff like that.” He says the last part quietly, mostly hoping Michael can't hear it over the party noise. 

But he does, his gaze snapping so quickly over to Luke he jumps. 

“What d'you mean no one tells you stuff like that?”

“Uh,” he fumbles, glancing hesitantly around the room. It's not like anyone's listening but he'd really rather not admit how much of a loser he is in a place pretty much anyone could hear. Plus he doesn't really _know_ Michael, and he'd like to at least pretend he's not completely pathetic.

“No?” is what he settles on, which doesn't even answer Michael's question, or make any sort of sense but that's all he's thinking, all he's feeling right now so that's what comes out. 

And Michael looks angry. His brows furrow together, making the piercing there shift weirdly against his skin. He looks like he's going to yell or say something cutting so Luke just keeps staring at the two black dots bracketing the tail of his eyebrow, bracing himself. But then his face settles and the piercing stops pulling and Michael looks soft again if not a bit awkward.

“I'm not sending you anymore notes,” he mutters. “It's weird for me, now that we've met. Sorry.”

There's a sinking in Luke's chest but he nods and lets his eyes drift to the empty glass in his hand. “It's fine. I get it.”

They just stand there, not looking at each other and not talking but also not leaving, in the quiet space of the kitchen with the shiny granite counter top separating them. Luke thinks about calling his mom to pick him up because, honestly, he doesn't know if he'd be able to find his way home after the night he's had but he doesn't know now to extract himself without it being weird and he doesn't want to call his freaking mom to pick him up from the first party he's been invited to in three years. He swirls the dregs of the disgusting shot in his glass, hoping Michael will leave first so he can slip out quietly and probably cry a little bit before heading home.

He's trying to think of an excuse to leave when Michael's suddenly by his side, tugging at his arm. He takes the glass from him and sets it on the island before shoving his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket and shrugging.

“Come on, let's go find Calum. He's probably dancing really badly with some girl and embarrassing Ashton. It'll be hilarious to watch.”

He starts towards the dance floor without looking back, assuming Luke is following him. He wants to but he doesn't, frozen in place. This is weird, this is all so weird, and he can't help but think something bad must be about to happen because thus far the night has been relatively okay, except for the part where Michael told him he's not getting anymore notes but he'll live through that. Going out into that crowded room again seems like an awful idea, like an excuse to get ridiculed and he'd rather end the night on this bizarre, bittersweet note than something much, much worse.

He's about to melt into the sea and disappear, when Michael's turning around, checking on him. When he sees him still stuck the kitchen, he raises an eyebrow, the right one, the one with the piercing. It doesn't pull against the skin this time, which Luke finds oddly comforting as he stares at it again.

“Come on,” he hears him say as he bobs his head towards the crowd. “Let's go.” And then Michael gives him a smile, just a small one, closed lipped, and it ignites something inside him. He looks warm and soft, like a cozy sunbeam you want to lay in all day, and Luke finds himself following despite his reservations, folding himself into the waves of bodies with his eyes stuck to the back of Michael's bobbing head.

*

Luke quickly discovers Michael is a liar.

First off, Calum does not, in fact, leave him alone after that first Everything but the Kitchen Sink shot. He coerces him into several more, enough that he feels like death when he wakes up the next day. He regrets it now, but at the time he didn't mind so much. The alcohol made him loosen up, and he found himself dancing with a pretty girl he'd probably never see again for a portion of the night. He watched Calum wind his way through the crowd, pressing up close to whoever he felt like and dancing with them for a song or two before moving on. Ashton did the same, but, instead of dancing, would have brief conversations with anyone he made eye contact with, flashing his dimples and filling the room with his laugh. And Michael did a mixture of both, catching up with people Luke had never seen before and running around the room with Calum, grinding up against unsuspecting dudes who pulled the fastest 'no homo' Luke had ever seen once they realized who was trying to get handsy.

He mostly tried not to get involved, but towards the end of the night, they cornered him, sandwiching them in between their bodies and went to town, awkwardly swivelling their hips and laughing breathlessly at each other. His face was probably flaming the entire time, but it was fun and he'd be lying if he said it didn't feel nice to have two good-looking guys' attention for awhile, even if it was all just a joke.

But secondly, and probably most importantly, the notes don't stop.

It's Monday morning, and Luke is vaguely sure he's still a little hungover. He barely managed to drag himself out of bed earlier, and the thought of doing anything more than putting clothes on seems like too much of an effort. He's staring at his reflection, flopping his fringe around on his forehead when he catches it, sliding into his field of vision; a little paper airplane comes sailing through his window and lands at the foot of his bed.

His stomach flips at the sight of it as he twists around in his seat to look at it and then at Michael's bedroom. He sees him moving around, bustling past the window as he chucks a couple things into his bag, but he won't look at Luke. He leans forward and picks up the note, peeling it open to read:

' _you should do your hair like you did on friday. it looks nice_ '

He checks the window again, but Michael is still shuffling around, probably purposefully avoiding looking at him. Even still, he blushes a little at the (albeit tame) compliment. Turning back to his reflection, he runs his fingers through his fringe once before focusing on the jar of styling product sitting on the dresser. He glances at the note in his lap before smiling and scooping out some of the product, pulling it through his hair until he's satisfied. It looks messier than last time, but he kind of likes it and even if he didn't, he wouldn't have a clue how to fix it.

His mom raises her eyebrows at him when he comes down the stairs, and he instantly reaches a hand up to flatten his fringe back down.

“No, no!” she exclaims with a wave of her hands. “I like it. You can see your beautiful eyes.” She smiles at him and takes his face in her hands to give him a kiss on the cheek. He blushes and rolls his eyes a little but he leaves the house feeling good.

*

They start hanging out, he and Michael and Calum and Ashton. It's weird at first; he's so used to not having friends, not having plans, that the first time Ashton calls him at home just to chat, he spends the first ten minutes asking him if he has the right number.

He sees them all at school between classes and at lunch most days. They don't have actual classes together, but he's okay with that. He's just happy to not have to hide in the library or in the music room anymore. 

At first they'd hung out almost exclusively as a group, Calum and Ashton acting as a kind of buffer with Luke so unsure where he and Michael stood. It had been... weird between them in the beginning. He caught Michael watching him when he thought he wouldn't notice on more than one occasion, and he was always very quiet when Luke was around. He figured it was because he was embarrassed about the notes and was careful to avoid the subject. After some time, when it was clear Calum and Ashton weren't going to let him go, Michael seemed to cave. He became loud and sometimes too talkative, not that Luke really minds. There's not many things Luke minds about Michael, if he's being honest.

So they don't talk about the notes, especially not about their frequency. Before they had been filled with compliments and sporadic, but now he gets one at least once a day, Michael using them whenever he wants to get Luke's attention. The compliments still come but more often than not it's Michael asking him if he wants to play GTA or play bad acoustic covers of blink-182 songs. They have phones, and he could easily text him any of this stuff but he doesn't, and Luke doesn't mind.

“Oi, do you want to go to the skate park tonight?” Michael asks one lunch break, chucking his bag down next to him and nicking Luke on the elbow. He slides in next to it, and Luke's so aware of the space between them, the scratchy fabric of Michael's backpack rubbing against his skin.

“Sure. What time?”

“I'll come get you.”

“You mean you'll actually come to my house? And meet my parents? Like a real date?” He raises his eyebrows and hides his smirk as he takes a drink from his water bottle, Michael jostling his shoulder.

“Shut up,” Michael snips, his cheeks flushed a pretty pink colour. He bites his lip and avoids Luke's gaze, which is strange, but he doesn't comment on it. “Just be ready around seven, yeah?”

“Yeah, alright.”

“Cool,” he says as he stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder and fidgeting with the straps. “I'll, uh, see you.”

“See you.”

He watches Michael cut across the field, headed toward the art building. Before he disappears inside, he checks around himself, as if making sure no one will see him. Again, it's odd behaviour, especially considering the music room is in the art building, and Michael spends a lot of his time in there. He's scanning the field when he catches Luke staring and smiles a little sheepishly before lifting two fingers above his head in a wave. Luke fights the urge to blush and waves back before Michael pulls open the heavy doors and vanishes into the building.

“Who you waving at, Lukey boy?” Ashton asks as he and Calum approach the table.

“Uh, no one. Just Michael.”

“Ah.” Ashton nods as he drops into a seat.

“Ash is coming to mine later tonight to watch some movies, if you'd like to join,” Calum proposes once he's sat down, spreading his stuff across the table and taking up more than half his fair share of room in the process.

“Uh, yeah, maybe. Michael and I were going to hang out but I'll ask him if he wants to go.”

They both stop eating, food frozen in place on track to their mouths. They glance at each other and then settle their eyes on Luke, who squirms uncomfortably under their combined stare.

“What were you guys going to do?” Calum asks, aiming for casual but falling short.

“I don't know,” he answers carefully, flicking his eyes between the two. “He was going to come get me and then we were going to go to the skate park.”

“Shit,” Calum whispers, drawing the word out as his eyes go wide.

“What?” he asks, heart starting to slam against his chest.

“Nothing,” Ashton interjects quickly. “It's nothing. Forget about us, hang out with Michael.” He smiles but it looks forced. Something unpleasant churns in Luke's stomach.

“Why? What's going on? We can all hang together, it's not a big deal.”

“No,” they rush to say at the same time, leaning forward with their words as if they were ripped from their mouths.

“No,” Ashton repeats a little more calmly this time. “Cal and I have a project to work on anyway so don't worry about it. We'll probably actually get some work done if you guys aren't there.” He laughs, and it sounds almost natural but the way he glances at Calum makes Luke uneasy.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Ashton nods. “It's fine.”

*

Luke fully expects Michael to chuck an airplane through his window telling him to meet him at the park instead of actually meeting him. He would honestly prefer it at this point, his stomach twisting itself into knots as he replays both Michael's strange behaviour at lunch and the weird conversation with Calum and Ashton over and over. Something just doesn't seem right, and he's terrified.

So when he hears the knock on his door at seven on the dot, his gut lurches, and a lump forms in his throat. He hurries to answer the door only to avoid introducing Michael to his parents. He doesn't think they'll disapprove or anything, but he kind of just wants to get the night over with and figures the introduction can be dealt with later.

“Hey,” Michael says once Luke's pulled open the door. He's beaming at him, smiling so big his eyes are crinkling at the corners. It eases the tension in Luke stomach some but not enough. “Ready to go?”

Luke glances back at his parents who are snuggled up on the couch, the colours from the television bouncing off their faces as they channel surf. They look safe and familiar, and it's so tempting to turn back and take his spot in the arm chair next to his grandma's old lamp. But then he looks back at Michael, who looks so... excited and eager, and even though he's still incredibly nervous, he nods and joins him outside.

They walk in mostly silence, headed towards the skate park. Michael is practically vibrating next to him and keeps swinging his arms vivaciously so that their knuckles keep knocking together. Every time it happens he pulls away quickly and blushes. Luke thinks it's probably a no homo thing, which certainly doesn't help the pit in his stomach.

It's not a particularly far walk to the park so Luke is surprised when Michael stops abruptly about a block away and turns to him.

“I need to tell you something,” Michael says seriously and bores into him in a way that makes Luke feel like he's peeling away layers of his skin, which sounds disgusting but is weirdly appealing and disconcerting all at the same time.

“Can it wait until we get to the park?” he asks because they're standing in the middle of the sidewalk, and he doesn't see why it can't wait another couple minutes.

“No, uh, we're not going to the park.”

“What?”

“We're, um.” Michael looks around, all shifty-eyed like he'd been at lunch. Luke's stomach coils even tighter, and he tenses, preparing for the worst, a punch, an ugly insult, _something_.

Finally, Michael draws in a huge breath and grins at him again, just like back at the house. “I'm going to get a tattoo,” he almost whispers, leaning into Luke's space.

He lets Michael's words settle for a moment before he's repeating, bewildered, “What?”

Michael just keeps smiling, bouncing on the balls of his feet now. “A tattoo. At this place downtown? They said they'd do one on me even though I'm a minor.”

“A tattoo?” Luke echoes. 

“Yeah.”

“You're not eighteen yet.” He's talking but not registering what's coming out of his mouth. He feels too loose all of a sudden, the tension between his shoulders melting away as his stomach unravels. Michael's getting a tattoo – an illegal tattoo and it's probably why he was acting so weird earlier. It's so simple and he feels so stupid for reacting the way he has. Sometimes things go right; he's just not used to it yet apparently.

“They don't care, as long as I can pay.”

“That seems shady as hell,” he laughs.

“Yeah, but who cares? I've been waiting forever, man. I just want to get it done. I can't wait another year.”

They stand in silence for a moment, Michael staring at him intently, while Luke just tries to wrap his brain around the fact that nothing awful happened.

“What are you telling me for?” he eventually asks.

“Um,” Michael stutters and suddenly he's shy, scuffing his shoe into the sidewalk and avoiding eye contact. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket and mumbles something Luke doesn't quite catch.

“Sorry?” he says.

“I was wondering if you'd come with me,” he mutters out, and Luke feels... he feels almost honoured that Michael chose him of all people to do something this big with. Michael is looking at him with such hopeful eyes that even if he had any doubts, it'd be hard to turn him down.

“D'you need someone to hold your hand or something?” he quips and Michael laughs, shoving at him.

“Shut up. Just – are you coming or not?”

Luke nods eagerly. “Yeah, of course.”

Michael looks so pleased, beaming at him again. It makes his stomach flip, having Michael look at him like that.

“Come on then. I'm already late for my appointment.”

“Michael!” he chastises, laughing. Michael joins him, bumping their shoulders together as they head towards downtown.

*

“Holy fuck!” Michael shouts as the tattoo artist bent over his arm gets to work, pressing the needle onto his skin.

“I warned you the inner arm is a sensitive place to get done, dude,” the tattoo artist says as she wipes at the area where black ink sits, dark and striking against the pale expanse of Michael's arm.

Michael grumbles in response, turning away to look at Luke, who's seated next to him, watching in fascination as the words take form on Michael's skin.

The tattoo is on the upper inner portion of his arm, large enough to fill the space there. It's some sort of text, but Michael won't tell him what. He wants it to be a surprise, though Luke doesn't really understand why. He supposes Michael can be rather dramatic when he chooses and maybe today is one of those times.

“Shit shit shit shit shit,” he rambles as the artist gets closer to the softer skin. Every part of Michael looks soft, but there's something about that inner area of his arm that looks unreal, almost like thick cream in its smoothness. Luke finds himself staring as if hypnotized by the sheer perfection of it, his skin unmarred by any marks. Except for now, there'll be a permanent mark, thick and opaque, to interrupt the smooth stretch of white. 

“Oh my fuck,” he hisses, hand lunging out and trapping Luke's in a painful grip. He stiffens, not sure what to do. He knows Michael is only grabbing his hand for something to hold on to, but the thrill that runs up his spine is still there, despite the grinding of his knuckles.

“Was this a bad idea? I'm thinking this was a bad idea.” He's resolutely staring at Luke while the tattoo artist does her work, chuckling every so often as Michael lets out a string of curses.

“Probably,” Luke admits, and Michael droops, his grip slacking around his hand. He uses the extra leeway to move his hand so that they're fingers are almost intertwined, watching Michael's face carefully to see how far he can push this. He thinks maybe he won't notice, too focused on the pain, but he does, of course he does, and his eyes widen as he glances between their hands and Luke's face. Luke takes in a shaky breath and gives his hand a quick squeeze before starting to pull away. He went too far, doesn't know if Michael is comfortable with things like this, doesn't even know if Michael is _interested_ in stuff like this. But to his surprise Michael clamps down, laces their fingers together completely and stares ahead determinedly while Luke rubs circles onto the back of his hand with his thumb, a small smile pulling at his lips for the rest of the evening.

*

The tattoo reads 'To the Moon' in a pretty, swirling script. Michael is in love and won't stop looking at it. Luke catches him studying his new ink several times as they walk home, giggling whenever he notices Luke noticing him.

“I can't believe you did it,” Luke says when they're a couple blocks away from their neighbourhood.

“Me neither,” Michael laughs, checking the tattoo again. He lets out a loud 'whoop!' and thrusts his unmarked arm in the air. Luke laughs, his excitement infectious, and Michael keeps going, doing this ridiculous, awkward jig around him as they walk. He watches Luke out of the corner of his eye, smiling as Luke laughs harder and harder until his laugh is a squeaky, small thing that he should probably be embarrassed about.

“I love your laugh,” Michael comments once they're both calmed down. He says it so casually, like that's something friends tell each other all the time. Maybe it is – it's not like Luke has a lot of experience in the friendship department – but his tone suggests otherwise.

They approach their houses, looming and still. The lights are out in both since it's late, and Luke doesn't want to go inside, doesn't want the night to end. In some bizarre alternate universe, he might consider this a date, but he knows it's not. He doesn't care, though, and he's content to stay in this universe where he and Michael held hands for almost two hours and he compliments his laugh and sends him dumb little notes on paper airplanes through his window like they're part of a Taylor Swift song.

They hover on the sidewalk, both looking at their feet, nor wanting to part ways. Maybe Luke's imagining it because this whole evening seems too surreal to be true, but he's pretty sure Michael keeps looking at his lips, which is just – he doesn't know how to react to that. He watches Michael's feet as they inch closer to his hesitantly and then they're too close to each other, too close for just friends and now he knows Michael is definitely staring at his mouth but it's okay because he's staring at his too.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he says. His voice is nearly a whisper. They're standing close enough he doesn't really need to speak louder than that.

“Thanks for bringing me. It was fun.”

Michael smiles, a soft thing, and Luke's heart flutters like he really is part of a damn Taylor Swift song. 

He starts to lean in because, fuck it, he wants to kiss Michael and he's pretty sure Michael wants to kiss him and he's tired of being scared all the time and –

“Luke?”

“Shit,” he swears as the porch light flicks on, his mom appearing in the doorway, peering into the night.

“Luke?” his mom repeats. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, it's me.”

“Oh.” She squints at him, probably trying to make out the other figure next to him. “What are you doing out so late?”

“Nothing. Just...” He looks back to Michael who's now put a fair amount of space between them and is shuffling towards his own house. “Nothing,” he sighs.

*

He fully expects to not hear from Michael for at least a couple days, if ever. He overstepped, he's sure, and he wouldn't blame him for not wanting to be around him anymore. Just because someone is nice to him doesn't mean he needs to fall all over them, and that's exactly what he did the other night. He's more than a little ashamed.

But on Sunday night he watches as a little paper plane wobbles through his window and lands almost perfectly in front of him. Unfolding it, he finds ' _let's go to the park_ ' scrawled messily, and he feels the corners of his mouth turn up.

Grabbing his phone he texts quickly, ' _Are we actually going to the park this time?_ '

' _shut up_ ,' Michael writes back, followed immediately by ' _yes._ '

He chuckles to himself before rolling off his bed and shoving his feet into a pair of shoes. He's careful leaving the house since it's late, and he doesn't want to wake his parents. He doesn't technically have a curfew because he'd never really had a reason to have one, and he prefers it stay that way.

Michael's already waiting for him outside, illuminated by a streetlight and fiddling with his phone, but when he hears the gentle shut of the door, he looks up and smiles softly at him. It makes his chest clench in the best way.

“Hey,” he greets and lifts his arm to wave, like there's anyone else his greeting could be directed to. 

“Hey,” he calls back anyway as he makes his way down the walkway, joining Michael under the streetlight. It casts unflattering shadows underneath his eyes, making him look hallowed and sick. But his grin suggests the opposite as he tucks his phone away and sets off towards the skate park. They walk leisurely, letting the warm breeze glide over their bodies. Michael's wearing an old Metallic shirt with the sleeves cut off so you can see the softness of his sides, the tiniest curve of his stomach, and with every strong gust of wind, Luke gets a peek of a little more. Everything is so pale and smooth, so different to his own body that often feels too angular and bumpy, with his square, broad shoulders and weirdly narrow waist. He feels gigantic next to Michael, even though he's only a few inches taller, and he stoops, instantly trying to shrink himself.

“Hey,” Michael barks, poking at his spine so he straightens up. “You'll ruin your posture if you keep slouching like that.”

“Because you're posture is so great,” he fires back, raising his eyebrows at the slope of Michael's shoulders. 

“It's too late for me, young one,” Michael says sagely as he pretends to stroke his imaginary beard. “But you, you can still learn.”

“You're such an idiot,” he laughs as he gives him a push, sending Michael stumbling to the side. He laughs back at him and gives him a shove. They continue like that down the path, roughhousing like two regular guys until they get to the park. It occurs to Luke suddenly that he hasn't brought a board and neither has Michael. Michael doesn't seem bothered by it, giving Luke one last bump as he takes off toward the bowl, declaring a race without saying anything. Luke chases after him, tripping over his own feet in order to catch up. 

Michael spins around at the last minute, catching Luke around the waist and they fall, crashing to the ground with a hard _thump_ that bruises Luke's shoulder. Michael's laughing breathlessly into his ear, and they're legs are tangled together, and Luke's chest feels like it's about to implode. He rolls to the side so that he's lying on his back, Michael mimicking him. The sun is setting, colouring the sky all sorts of beautiful orange and purple hues. Luke thinks about how textbook cheesy romantic this all is, that if he and Michael were a real thing he would probably roll his eyes and rag on him but he's secretly pleased that Michael might like to do dumb stuff like watch the sun set.

They just lay there, watching the colours in the sky change and fade to black. The night is clear so they can see a few stars peeking through. He can't remember the last time he looked up.

“I think I might get another tattoo,” Michael says conversationally. Luke twists his head to look at him. His arms are tucked behind his head, displaying the fresh To the Moon tattoo to the world.

“Yeah?” Luke says after a moment as he adjusts his position on the concrete. “What are you thinking of?”

“I don't know. I just want another one. Maybe something on my other arm to, like, balance everything out or something? I don't know.” He huffs, a sort of aborted laugh that fades into nothing.

“Would you come with me again?” he asks softly. It warms something deep inside Luke and he finds himself nodding.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Cool,” Michael says, seemingly more relaxed.

They lie there for hours, until Luke's back aches and there are tiny bits of gravel embedded into the back's of his arms. They don't talk much, just enough, when it feels natural. He's so comfortable – not literally obviously – and it feels... good. _He_ feels good in a way he didn't know he was missing.

When they finally peel themselves off the ground and walk home, he feels boneless. He sways as they say goodbye – no weird almost-kiss this time, just a tight squeeze on the arm from Michael – and stumbles his way up to his room. He doesn't bother changing, just strips off his jeans and flops on the bed, running over all the little conversations they'd had that night and smiling to himself.

He's about to fall asleep when the paper plane floats through his window, resting an arm's length away. Michael's aim is getting good, Luke thinks, considering he's never even been in Luke's room.

' _tonight was fun,_ ' it reads.

He sleeps well that night.

*

“Holy shit.”

“I can't believe you did it, mate.”

Michael beams proudly as Calum and Ashton circle his arm, admiring his tattoo. He'd strutted into school with the sleeves ripped off his button-down and his cardigan slung over his shoulder, a smirk on his lips. He'd looked a bit like a tool, if Luke was honest, and he was definitely going to get written up for the uniform, but he looked happy so Luke let's him make a scene about it, showing himself off.

Besides, no one else really cares other than Calum and Ashton, and Luke knows they're the ones Michael is trying to impress. They probably couldn't care less about the tattoo itself; they just want to know the story, and Michael fills them in, embellishing a little here and there. He doesn't contribute, let's Michael shine. Calum and Ashton nod eagerly and make the appropriate sounds at the appropriate times. After he's done, Calum bombards him with questions while Ashton just shakes his head in disbelief.

“I just can't believe he did it,” he tells Luke while Calum talks Michael's ear off, filled to the brim with questions apparently.

“It's pretty crazy,” Luke concedes.

“He looks good, though.” 

Luke nods, not really paying attention, instead watching Michael wave his hands in the air, talking animatedly. “Yeah, the tattoo looks great.”

“Right, yeah, the tattoo.” Ashton bobs his head in agreement, seeming kind of lost in thought himself. “I'm not sure if it's just that, though,” he says after a moment. “He looks... different. Happier or something. Like he's...”

Luke waits, watching him out of the corner of his eye, a weird tension knotting itself at the base of his neck, while Ashton struggles to find his words.

“I don't know, he's just different. But a good different, you know?”

“Yeah,” Luke says, letting his gaze drift back to Michael. “I think I do.”

*

“You should get your lip pierced,” Michael tells him one day. They're at a park – a real one this time, with actual grass and a jungle gym – kicking a football around. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and it's so stereotypical, Luke can't believe the day is real.

He fumbles, twisting his ankle awkwardly as the ball slides under his foot. “What?”

“Your lip, you should get it pierced,” Michael repeats, thwacking the ball back in Luke's general direction. Michael's not an athlete by any means, his arms flopping wildly every time he kicks the ball. Calum would critique his form until the end of time if he was here, but Luke's content to just be outside, even if he does have to chase after Michael's overzealous shots more often than not.

“Why?” he laughs, catching an awry shot with his chest.

“Because it'd look good,” he says simply.

“Very funny.” He watches Michael wind up and punt the ball with his toe, sending it arching almost straight up into the air. Luke jogs back a few steps and bunts it with his head, knocking his hat askew. He adjusts it while Michael takes after the ball, a pale flash in the sun. 

“No, really. I think you'd look great,” he says once he's returned, attempting to juggle the ball on his feet and failing. He tips to back to Luke once he's given up and stares at him solemnly. “It'd be very punk rock.”

Luke catches the pass and starts dribbling the ball clumsily between his feet, doing better than Michael but not by much. Michael sticks his tongue out at him petulantly as he dribbles, and Luke laughs, messing up, tapping it back to him.

“I don't care about being punk rock. That's all you.”

“Shut up,” he says and chucks the football at him. He catches it easily much to Michael's agitation. “Seriously, though. Think about it.”

And the weird thing is, he does. He thinks about it more than he anticipates actually, and the more he thinks about it, the more he wants to do it. Maybe he wants to impress Michael, or maybe he wants to do something impulsive for once in his life, or maybe he actually wants the damn piercing for himself. Whatever the reason, he finds himself knocking on Michael's door a couple days later, adrenaline thrumming through his body. He feels like he's breaking some sort of unspoken rule between the two of them by coming to the house. He can hear his heart in his ears as he knocks and hopes that he's not too obviously red.

A pretty, middle-aged woman answers the door, and Luke immediately thrusts his hand in her face. She looks surprised, eyebrows raised as she gives him a subtle once-over, just a quick flick of the eyes.

“Um, hi,” Luke stutters. “I'm Luke. I live next door? I was wondering – is – uh, is Michael home?”

“Luke,” the woman recites slowly as she takes his hand and pumps it also quite slowly. Something clicks into place as she's studying his face, and she breaks out into a smile.

“Right, Luke, of course,” she mutters to herself with a shake of her head. “I should've known,” she says more clearly and directed at Luke. “I'm Michael's mom. It's nice to finally meet you. Michael talks about you all the time.”

“He does?” It slips out before he can think it through and his cheeks burn. Her smile only grows, and there's something in her eyes that is so similar to Michael it's jarring.

“Won't shut up about you really,” she says with a wink, and Luke's face warms even more. She opens her mouth to say more, he's sure, but is interrupted much to Luke's relief.

“Mum?” Michael calls out as he thumps down the stairs, popping up behind his mother. “Who's at the door?”

He freezes when he sees Luke, fidgeting, while his mom looks between the two of them, grinning almost mischievously. 

“Hey,” Michael manages, drawing the word out uncertainly.

“Hi.” Luke waves, while Michael's mom's smile broadens.

“What's up?” He leans against the banister, aiming for casual but looking deeply uncomfortable as his eyes shift from Luke to his mom and back again.

“I, um, I was wondering if I could talk to you? About something personal?” He tacks on when Michael's mom makes no sign of leaving.

“Oh, yeah, sure, let me just... let me just grab my shoes and, uh, we can go. Or something.”

Michael scrambles off leaving Luke alone with his mother again. She looks on the verge of laughter but is politely suppressing it as she watches her boy fumble around where Luke can't see.

“You boys be safe tonight,” she tells Luke just as Michael is tripping back to the door, hastily pulling on a sweater and lacing up one boot.

“Yeah, of course,” Luke says and she shoots him another wink as Michael rushes them out the door, calling a quick garbled goodbye over his shoulder.

They walk in silence while Luke tries to process everything. There's an awkward tension between them he's never really experienced, and he's not sure how to deal with it. He opens his mouth once, twice, just trying to say _something_ , anything to fill the quiet space. 

Michael saves him the effort. Running a hand through his hair, he lets out a huge breath and asks, “What did you want to talk about?”

“Oh, um.” He pauses, suddenly unsure. “I... want to get my lip pierced?” It comes out more like a question than he intends but it's out there at least.

“Do you?” Michael raises his eyebrows at him, and the glint of his eyebrow piercing is enough to solidify his answer.

“Yeah. Yes. Definitely.”

And Michael's smiling at him, a surprised little smile that makes his stomach flip.

“Great.”

*

“There's going to be a slight pinch when the needle goes through,” the piercer warns as he preps his equipment. “And there's going to be this tube thing sticking out of your mouth so, you know, be prepared. Doesn't hurt or anything but it weirds some people out.”

Luke just nods his head along as the piercer talks, keeping up a constant stream of chatter in an attempt to calm him probably. Michael's chatting with the girl who did his tattoo, gesturing wildly with his arms while she looks on, amused. It twists something in his gut; not jealousy necessarily but something akin to it.

“You ready?” the piercer asks, interrupting his thoughts.

“Um.” Luke flicks his eyes over to Michael, who's still wrapped up in his story, then back to his hand tapping a nervous beat on his knee.

“Do you want to get your boyfriend first?” His gaze snaps to the piercer, who's not even paying attention and is double-checking all the instruments laid out in front of him.

“He's not –”

“Are we ready?” Michael asks, sidling over to Luke's side before he can correct the piercer.

“Yup,” the piercer replies, popping the 'p.' He levels Luke with a look. “You good?”

He nods. “Yeah. Yes.”

“Alright.” He swabs Luke's lip with an anti-septic before marking the spot he'd decided on earlier. He hands Luke a mirror to check the position, and he nods again. Even the tiny dot looks weird to him, and he can't imagine anything actually being there. As the piercer places the clamps on his lip, it hits him, what he's doing, and his hand tenses on his knee where it's resting. 

He feels the needle pushing through the skin, and it's painful but not unbearable. His grip on his knee still tightens a little more before Michael's hand is covering it, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb just like he'd done to him a few weeks ago, and his heart jumps into his throat. He glances nervously at the piercer, waiting for some snide comment, but he's too focused on inserting the small stud he'd selected to say anything. Maybe he just doesn't care.

And before he knows it, the stud is in, the needle is gone, and his freshly pierced lip is glinting back at him in the mirror.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, reaching up to touch it.

“Hey,” the piercer chastises, smacking his hand. “No touching unless your hands are clean, alright? Don't want it getting infected.”

“Right,” he says immediately, obediently lowering his hand.

“Should only take about six to eight weeks to heal completely. You can just wash it with some antibacterial soap in the shower or whatever, no need to buy anything fancy, just make sure it's fragrance free.” He peels his gloves off his hands with a _snap_ while thinking. “Try not to smoke anything or drink anything alcoholic until it's completely healed. No eating, drinking, or smoking at all for the next three hours.” He looks between him and Michael, catches their clasped hands and concludes, “And no oral or rough make out sessions until it's completely healed.” His gaze turns to Michael. “Got it?”

Luke turns an embarrassing shade of red, but Michael just nods along and gives Luke's hand two quick pats before removing it and grinning at him.

“It looks awesome,” he tells him once the piercer is out of ear-shot.

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Michael says, and he's so earnest it hurts his chest. “Very punk rock.”

Luke laughs and shoves him away as he jumps off the stool they'd had him sit on. The girl who did Michael's tattoo rings them up, smiling at him as he hands her his money.

“It looks great,” she says, nodding at the piercing. “But I think I'd go for a ring next time. Once it's all healed up come back, and we'll find something you like, okay?”

He nods, accepting his change with a smile. He has too much energy, feels ready to vibrate out of skin, and grabs Michael's wrist without thinking about it, dragging him out of the shop because he needs to run, scream, _something_ and burn this adrenaline thrumming through his veins. Michael lets out a little yelp as he pulls him through the door, the heavy night air enveloping him in a sticky hug. He lets out a shout the moment they're outside, Michael laughing and joining him, whooping and thrusting a fist in the air.

“My parents are going to kill me,” Luke announces. He's grinning even though it hurts a bit, his bottom lip sensitive. “I'm probably going to get written up at school.”

Michael laughs again. “You're such a loser.”

They're words he's definitely heard whispered before, and he thinks they should probably hurt, but Michael looks and sounds so fond, watching him out of the corner of his eye and grinning like an idiot that Luke can't believe there's any malicious intent behind them.

They stroll around their neighbourhood for a couple hours, waiting for it to be late enough that Luke's parents will probably be asleep, and he can sneak in undetected. It seems to be all they do, just wandering and talking, and Luke likes it because it's easy, being with Michael. He feels like he doesn't have to worry about what he says or how he looks. He can just... be, and it's comforting.

When it's nearing midnight, they head back to Luke's house, walking carefully so as not to rip out the headphones they're sharing. They're standing so close that their knuckles keep brushing, and each touch sends a tingle down his arm. Michael's humming along to the music, sometimes singing quietly, making up little harmonies here and there. Luke tries to be as silent as he can, wanting to relish this moment because Michael doesn't sing often, and Luke loves his voice. 

Once they get to their homes, Michael pulls out the headphones gently, carefully wrapping them around his phone. He's twisting them up slowly, much slower than he needs to. Luke knows he could easily say good night right now, that he doesn't have to wait for Michael to pocket his phone, but he stays rooted in place.

“So tonight was fun,” Michael says once he's done fiddling.

“Yeah.”

“We should do it again some time.”

“We hang out almost every day, Michael.”

He shrugs as a blush dots his cheeks. “Yeah, I know. But I like hanging out with you.”

It's a simple statement but it still makes Luke's heart rattle in his ribcage with the sincerity of his words. “I like hanging out with you, too.”

Michael grins, steps a little closer. “Good.”

Luke laughs even though it's not that funny, and Michael inches into his space until they're so close he can feel little puffs of breath coming from Michael's mouth. It's all so familiar, and he's praying his parents are actually asleep this time because he honestly thinks he'll break something if they're interrupted again. He feels Michael lean in, and Luke's so eager, but Michael just brushes their noses together in a sickly sweet way before barely ghosting his lips against his. Luke chases the motion, pushing forward into the almost-kiss but Michael's pulling back, smirking.

“Asshole,” Luke murmurs against his mouth, and he feels Michael's smirk widen.

“You wanna kiss me, Hemmings?”

A flush creeps up his neck because he quite obviously _does_ want to kiss him, but he's stubborn and more than little embarrassed to admit it. “You're such a dick,” he huffs and starts to tilt his head away, a little annoyed but also trying to tease. 

And it works because Michael's catching Luke's jaw before tilting his head back and slotting their lips together. Michael's mouth is just as soft as it looks, and it makes his head spin as they kiss. The angle is not quite right, Luke's head craned a little too far to the side but Michael's got a vicious grip on the back of his neck, fingers brushing at the hairs at the nape of his neck and making his legs shake. He thinks he could stay there forever, just kissing Michael, but then they shift as Michael tries for more and a throb comes from his bottom lip as his piercing wiggles painfully. He pulls back with a gasp, both for air and with pain.

Michael's eyes look panicked when Luke retreats, his hand slipping away from his neck. The skin there tingles but all Luke can focus on is the ache in his bottom lip.

His hand hovers just above the fresh piercing, careful not to touch. “Ow.”

“Shit,” Michael breathes, ruffling the back of his hair. “I totally forgot. Sorry.”

“No, it's okay,” he says hurriedly. “It was worth it.”

The smile Michael rewards him with only makes his heart beat faster, and, God, does he want to kiss him again. He tries, ignoring the ache in his lip and leaning forward but Michael dodges him with a coy smile.

“Save it.”

Luke pouts a little at that until Michael darts in and presses the barest of kisses to his lips. It stuns Luke enough that it gives him time to wave good night and disappear into his house while he remains rooted to his spot, grinning like an idiot.

*

The lip piercing goes over better than he expects. His mom just raises her eyebrows before kissing his forehead and ruffling his hair affectionately, while his dad mostly doesn't comment on it, other than to remind him to clean it. He catches a couple teachers eyeballing it in class but no one reports him, which is a ridiculous weight off his shoulders. He finds himself standing a little taller, wanting people to notice the tiny, nondescript black dot on his lower lip. And a couple people do comment on it, surprised compliments mostly. It makes him feel better than he thought it would. It's nice to be noticed sometimes.

At lunch, Ashton and Calum get their first looks at it, oohing and aahing appropriately before Calum asks him a stream of questions, apparently considering the piercing on top of about a dozen tattoos.

“You're going to get in so much shit with your mom,” Ashton tells him, shaking his head as Calum sketches some poor renditions of his future tattoos.

“I'm eighteen, what is she going to do about it?” Calum shoots back defiantly but there's a hint of guilt in his eyes as he ducks his head and goes back to doodling.

Michael slides in next to Luke before Ashton says anything further, pressing up against Luke's side and pecking him quickly on the cheek. It makes Luke blush and both Calum's and Ashton's eyebrows shoot up as they glance between the two of them.

“Are you two...?” Calum asks, gesturing vaguely between them with his pen.

“Um,” Luke stumbles. He feels Michael's hand on his and hesitantly flips his palm up to lock them together. When Michael's hand wraps around his, it's comforting and oddly relieving. He still doesn't know how to answer Calum's question because he doesn't know what they are. Knowing Michael is at least somewhat on the same page is reassuring, though, and he squeezes his hand to let him know.

“We're something,” is what he settles on. When he looks at Michael for approval, he just beams at him and squeezes his hand back.

“Please take it easy on the PDA,” Ashton says. “That's all I ask.”

And that's that, for awhile anyway.

He's not really sure what he and Michael are. He thinks they're maybe dating, maybe boyfriends. They don't really do anything different from before, except now they hold hands a lot, and Michael has this really awful, wonderful habit of immediately wrapping his arms around him whenever they're sitting next to one another. He thinks they'd probably spend a lot of time making out if they didn't have to wait for his piercing to heal, and maybe that's what's making him uncertain, that they can't kiss. It's stupid because physical intimacy shouldn't define a relationship, he knows that, but because he and Michael never really talk about anything concerning their... relationship or whatever this is, he links it to that lack. The only thing he's sure of is they're definitely not just friends.

*

It's almost two months before Calum finally sort of works up the courage to get some work done, roping the whole group into heading to the tattoo parlour and only committing when Michael says he'll get something done as well. They're both jittery as they walk to the parlour, a couple paces ahead of Ashton and Luke, chatting excitedly about nothing. Ashton watches them, a soft fondness around his eyes while Luke just sort of takes it all in, finding a moment to appreciate how much his life has changed in the past few months.

The girl who did Michael's first tattoo is working on him again, while another guy Luke's seen hanging around the past two times he's been in ushers Calum away to show him some sketches. Ashton wanders over to the displays and begins idly flipping through the pages and pages of artwork compiled into a worn binder. The guy who did Luke's piercing spots him and waves, starting over to him.

“Hey, man, what's up?” he greets. “Everything good with the piercing?”

“Yeah, it's fine,” Luke says. “Just here with some friends.” He nods over to Michael and then Calum.

“Cool, cool.” The guy nods. Then, after a pause, “You know, it should be all healed up. We can change the jewelry if you want.”

He considers it for a moment, remembering that Michael's tattoo artist suggested a ring when he was ready, and decides to go for it. He, Ashton, and the piercer pick out a sleek black hoop that the piercer easily exchanges for the stud. He teaches Luke how to put it in without stabbing himself and slips his old stud into a little plastic bag for safe-keeping, and by the time all that is said and done, Michael's tugging on the hem of his shirt.

“We're going to start soon,” he says. “You gonna sit with me again?”

“What about Calum?” he asks, twisting around to see Calum already pulling off his shirt and settling into the chair.

“I think he's okay,” Michaels says with a smile as he takes Luke's hand and tugs him over to his chair. 

“I see you followed my suggestion,” the tattoo artist says. She taps the corner of her lip with the butt of the tattoo gun and winks. “It looks good.”

“Thanks.”

“He always looks good,” Michael says, grinning up at him while Luke rolls his eyes. The tattoo artist laughs and shakes her head as she begins prepping Michael's arm for the ink.

Michael handles this tattoo better than the last but only marginally. He still almost crushes Luke's hand whenever the needle passes over a tender section of skin, and there's almost a constant stream of cussing. Calum isn't much better, and his grunts and curses can be heard across the shop but he's not holding anyone's hand, largely because Ashton is too busy chatting up a girl at the front desk.

Calum is done earlier than Michael, and he and Ashton take off, agreeing to meet up at a party later. He's not sure if they'll actually go this time because Michael is more of a homebody than he'd probably like to admit. Luke doesn't mind either way but it'd be nice to go out now and again.

“So you're piercing's all healed up, huh?” he asks as the tattoo artist is finishing up, applying some sort of ointment and then a bandage to protect the new ink. 

“Yep.” Luke nods, running his tongue over the cool metal before pulling it into his mouth and fiddling with it. The ring feels so different from the stud; he's much more aware of it and can't stop flicking it around to feel the jewelry wiggle in place.

“Which means...” And he leans up faster than Luke can catch him and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I can kiss you all I want now.”

He recoils almost instantly, laughing nervously. He'd been okay with all the other stuff, the hand-holding and cuddling, and he thought he'd be okay with something like this, with the kissing, but the knots in his stomach suggests otherwise. He glances around the shop, trying to gauge everyone's reaction to Michael's brazen display of affection. No one's even looking at them, other than the tattoo artist who seems entirely unbothered. Michael's watching him carefully, eyebrows pinched together. He reaches for Luke's hand again, and he takes it numbly.

“Is everything okay?” Michael asks. There's genuine concern in his voice that eases the tension in Luke's stomach some but he's still stressed, waiting for someone to call him a name, to alienate him all over again.

“It's fine,” he manages. His throat is tight, and the words come out strangled. Michael doesn't say anything, just takes the aftercare instructions from the girl and leaves, tugging Luke along behind him.

The walk home is silent, but Michael's grip on his hand is constant and reassuring. They're almost at their houses when Michael stops, turning to face him abruptly and dropping his hand. “Did I do something wrong? Back there?”

“No,” Luke replies quickly.

“Do you not want to do... whatever this is anymore? It's fine if that's what you want. I won't be mad or whatever.”

“No,” he repeats desperately. “I – I like whatever this is. I just – I'm not... comfortable with...” He gestures vaguely between them, unable to define exactly what he's not okay with. He pushes out a great gust of air before dropping his hands to his side. “I get a lot of shit for being, um, into guys.”

“Oh,” is all Michael says.

“Yeah. I guess I'm, I don't know, worried? Because even when I wasn't, you know, kissing guys in public, I got pushed around a lot and stuff for it so. I guess I just expect it.”

Michael's brows are pinched together again, a frown tugging at his lips. “That's bullshit.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“No, it is. It's complete bullshit.”

Luke just shrugs. He knows it isn't fair that he feels the need to watch over his shoulder every time Michael reaches for his hand or loops an arm around his waist. He does. But that's how his life has been for the past few years, and it's hard to stop those habits.

“We don't have to kiss or hold hands or anything if you don't want to,” Michael says softly. He's still angry, Luke can see it in his body, but he's trying so hard to be calm for him. “I want to, but if you're scared or you don't like it or anything like that, we don't have to.”

“I want to,” Luke says quietly. “I just need some time or something. I need to get used to it.”

Michael nods. “Okay. Okay. I can do that. I can wait.” He comes a little closer, cups Luke's face. “Is it okay if I kiss you now?”

Luke laughs at the hesitancy in his touch, in his voice. “You don't need to ask permission.”

“I don't want to surprise you!”

“We're alone, it's fine.”

Michael rolls his eyes, and presses his mouth to his. It's better than the first time, a better angle, a better feeling. He's not thinking about anything other than Michael's lips moving against his, or the way Michael's fingers instantly play with the hair at the nape of his neck, or the smoothness of the tiny patch of stomach his thumb is rubbing against. He's wrapped up in this wonderful boy, who he guesses sees something wonderful in him too, and it's amazing.

They stay there for awhile, sharing hungry kisses until they're breathless. When they pull apart, they're both grinning. Michael darts forward to kiss him quickly one last time before lacing their fingers together as they walk the last couple blocks home.

“Do you want to come up?” he asks once they're at his door, and Luke nods eagerly before Michael drags him upstairs.

Michael's room is both exactly how he imagined it and not at all what he expected. He's only ever seen the small square the window allows but from that sliver of posters and mess, spirals even more clutter. Most of the walls are covered in flyers from local gigs, concert stubs, ripped out magazine articles, posters, anything and everything pertaining to Michael's interests. They overlap one another, fighting for space. They rest of his room is pretty plain, a desk tucked into the corner with an elaborate computer set up, as well as a couple gaming consoles piled under it. There's the guitar tucked into the corner of room Luke sees from his window, and his bed, surprisingly, is neat, as well as the floor, a stark contrast to Luke's room, which is almost always covered in clothes and other junk.

He starts examining the wall in one corner of the room but there's so much stuff layered there that he thinks it's near impossible to get through it all. Michael leaves him to it and strides over to his computer, clicking open iTunes and pressing a random playlist that blasts from the speakers, too loud, before Michael's turning it down, sheepish. 

He tosses himself onto his bed and pats a spot next to him, watching Luke as he plops down. “Want to watch a movie?”

“I thought we could go to that party Calum and Ash went to.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “You want to go to that?”

Luke pauses, uncertain. “Do you?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Michael answers instantly. “I just thought you weren't into parties. That's why I never go when we're hanging out.”

“No, I want to go.” It comes out shy, for some reason, which is dumb. He doesn't need to be shy around Michael.

“Alright, yeah, we can go.” He shifts a little closer to Luke and folds him into his side. “Maybe we could do something else to pass the time,” he mouths into Luke's neck where he's pressing his lips, undoubtedly feeling Luke's pulse hammering away.

“Did you have ulterior motives when you invited me up here?” he teases but the words come out shakier than he intends. 

He feels Michael smirk before murmuring, “Maybe.” He rolls them clumsily so that Luke's beneath him, caged in by his long arms. The bandage wrapped just above his elbow crinkles, and Luke glances at it in confusion for a moment, feeling like the tattoo happened weeks ago instead of hours. “We haven't got to make out yet,” Michael practically whines, leaning down to kiss Luke's lip ring. “That thing got in the way. I've missed out on almost two months of prime time with your mouth.”

“Oh, my God,” Luke groans, hiding his face in his hands. “You're embarrassing.”

“You love it.” Michael grins, brushing a kiss to his shoulder. “But seriously do you want to make out?”

He rolls his eyes, but his stomach flips at the thought. Even though this day has been a roller coaster of emotions, yes, he still desperately wants to make out with Michael in his busy, cluttered universe. He pulls Michael's face to his, initiating the kiss for once, and feels Michael melt under his touch. His arms collapse so that their bodies are flush to one another, and Luke loves being able to feel Michael's heart beating erratically in his chest against his.

The more they kiss, the more impatient he gets, rucking up Michael's shirt and letting his fingertips run up and down his back, feeling the smooth expanse of his shoulders. It sends a shiver down Michael's spine that has him pressing himself closer and kissing down his neck, scraping his teeth against his jugular.

“Can I give you a hickey?” Michael pants, and it's not hot, it totally isn't, but it has Luke whimpering and nodding enthusiastically anyway. Michael attaches his lips to his neck again and sets to work, biting then soothing with his tongue. He's never experienced a hickey before, but he guesses it's something he's into as he grinds up against Michael involuntarily. It makes Michael stutter in his movements before he's moving lower, stretching out the neck of Luke's shirt and rolling his hips in response.

“Fuck,” he breathes out as Michael sucks a mark onto his collarbone. Michael's shirt is practically off at this point, scrunched up around his armpits. Luke keeps pushing at it anyway until Michael finally sits up and pulls it over his head, fumbling when it gets caught on his head. He only gets to see the creamy canvas of his chest for a moment before Michael's tugging at his own shirt, rushing to yank it off. He's too caught up to be self-conscious, just let's Michael man-handle him out of the clothing. Once it's off, Michael just stares. Anxiety flares in his chest and he squirms, wrapping his arms around his stomach to cover it. He takes care of himself, goes for runs, and eats alright for the most part but he definitely doesn't have an impressive set of abs or anything. He was a chubby kid, and some of that residual chub is still there no matter how hard he works to get rid of it.

But then Michael's pulling at his hands, pining them to his sides and drinking him all in. “Fuck, you're hot.”

“Shut up.” He blushes, can feel it spreading across his chest and buries his face in the blankets surrounding him.

“Oh, my God, you're a fully body blusher.” Michael grins. “That's adorable.”

“Michael,” he whines. Michael just chuckles before he's kissing him all over again, trailing his lips down his chest. He keeps going, seemingly on a mission to get Luke out of his pants, which, he thinks _yes_ but also no because maybe this all too much too fast.

“Wait, wait, stop,” he gasps, dragging Michael's face back up to his.

“Everything okay?”

“I just – I don't want to do too much, if that's okay.”

“Yeah, off course,” Michael answers immediately. “I give a pretty great blow job, though, just so you know.” He winks and Luke's cheeks burn. Michael laughs and they kiss some more, but the pace is noticeably slower. There's less heat behind each kiss as Michael turns them so that they're lying parallel to each other, tangling their legs together as they cool down.

“We should probably get going,” Michael whispers when they're just laying there, looking at each other.

“Yeah.”

“We could still stay in. Watch a movie. Make out some more.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and Luke pushes him away with a laugh.

“No, let's go. It'll be fun.”

They pull their shirts back on and try to arrange their hair to look a little more dignified. Michael's lips are even redder than normal, and it makes Luke want to kiss him all over again. Before he can change his mind, Michael laces their fingers together and they're off.

*

The party is ramping up when Michael and Luke arrive, music loud and beer flowing freely. The moment they're within spitting distance of Calum and Ashton, Calum is shoving shot glasses into their hands and describing his most recent mix. Luke knocks it back about half-way through his description, and it tastes just as bad as he thought it would. It's strong as hell, too, making his body thrum with liquid confidence.

“We should dance,” he tells Michael, who raises his eyebrows but nods, lets Luke lead him to a busy section where they'll hopefully blend in. Ashton and Calum trail behind them, but Calum's already scoping the crowd, while Ashton keeps glancing at the door, waiting for someone Luke guesses. He doesn't really worry about them and instead focuses on the music, tries to relax. Calum hands him another shot, which he takes too fast, and it feels like it goes straight to his brain. It makes dancing a whole lot easier, the alcohol making him loose and pliant. He's honestly a horrible dancer, too tall and lanky, all elbows and knees but with Calum's poison pumping through his veins, he feels kind of okay and let's himself do whatever feels natural. Michael follows his movements, his hands resting on his hips as they sway to the music. He feels safe, surrounded by both his best friends and endless anonymous faces. There's an odd comfort in that anonymity; there's no one to judge, to ridicule, to harass him. And even if people look at him and think or say horrible things, he'll probably never see them again, and that's so freeing – enough so that he leans forward and kisses Michael without thinking, right there in a sea of people. 

When he pulls away, Michael's beaming at him, his eyes crinkled at the corners. It's Luke's favourite smile.

Someone behind them cheers, and he feels someone else clap him on the back. He lets out a laugh and pulls Michael close, hugging him so tightly his bones might break. The music builds and everyone is going wild, jumping up and own and whooping and it feels like they're all celebrating something. A sense of belonging blossoms in his chest, and he finds himself jumping with the crowd as the music escalates. Everything is just right for once.

Until it isn't. He feels the hand clamp down on his shoulder, spinning him around. He's so caught up in the infectious euphoria of the crowd, he's still smiling when the punch catches him in the jaw. His head snaps back then forward again to see a familiar sneering face, flanked by his buddies.

“What the fuck?” Michael yells, positioning himself in front of Luke while he rubs at his jaw.

“You think you can come into my house and pull that gay shit here?” Luke's bully says instead of acknowledging Michael. He's looking through him, directly at Luke, face twisted in disgust.

“I didn't know,” Luke mumbles, voice barely audible.

“What's that, cocksucker? You 'didn't know'? So you do this shit in other people's homes? That's fucking gross, man.”

“Fuck off,” Michael tells him, stepping fully in front of Luke now. “Look, we'll leave, alright? Just calm down.”

“Shut up, queer,” the guy says, finally addressing Michael. His hands clench at his sides. Luke puts a hand on his shoulder.

“It's fine, we're leaving.”

“Damn, right you are,” he says, straightening up to his full height while his friends close in more tightly behind him. “Fucking faggots.”

Before Luke can stop him, Ashton appears seemingly out of nowhere and swings a fist into the guy's face. It's a sloppy punch but it hurts all the same, and the guy goes down. His crew crowd around him, swearing profusely and ready to fight, but Ashton's turned his back to them, staring at Michael and Luke with concern.

“Are you okay?”

“Are _you_?” Luke asks staring at Ashton's hand.

“Honestly I think I broke my hand but it's fine. I'll get it checked out.” He looks hard at Michael. “You good?”

“He's an asshole,” Michael seethes, and he looks ready to fight too.

“He's an ignorant bigot, that's nothing new.” He glances over his shoulder but the guy is still on his back, holding his nose, which is trickling blood. “Come on, let's leave while we can.”

Ashton ushers them out of the house quickly, snagging Calum on the way out, who mostly just looks confused but comes along anyway.

“What's going on?” he asks once they're a couple blocks from the party.

“Some dickhead took a swing at Luke,” Michael fumes. His expression softens when he looks at him, reaching out to touch his jaw. “You okay?”

“It's fine,” he replies, brushing off his touch. “I've had worse.”

“Those guys have given you trouble before?” Ashton asks.

“Yeah.”

“I'm going to kill them,” Michael announces, rounding on his heel to head back to the house.

“No, Michael, it's fine,” he protests, getting in his way in an effort to stop him.

“They've been beating the shit out of you because you fucking like guys. That's not fucking fine, Luke.”

“No, I know, please, stop,” he pleads, placing a hand on Michael's chest. He can feel his heart thumping through his t-shirt, too fast. “They're not worth it, okay? In a couple months I'll never see them again. They leave me alone for the most part anyway, it's fine, okay, it's fine. I'm fine.”

“No, you're not. Christ, Luke, you're scared to fucking kiss me in public because of assholes like that. That's not 'fine,' alright?”

“It is for now.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yes,” he says quietly because it's true. The situation isn't perfect but, fuck, it's pretty damn close. He really hadn't been getting any shit for awhile now, and even when he was, he didn't care because he had Michael and Calum and Ashton. He has _friends_ and that's enough to make the snide comments roll off his back. “I just want to go home, okay?”

And Michael looks ready to make this an issue, looks ready to argue with him about this, but maybe it's the way he looks or how small his voice sounds. Whatever it is takes all the fight out of him, and instead of getting into it, he wraps an arm around Luke's shoulders and says, “Okay.”

The four of them walk back to Luke's place where they part ways. Ashton asks if he needs anything about a dozen times before he takes off, and Calum just sort of hovers uncertainly before pulling him into a tight hug. Michael insists on putting him to bed but he objects, making excuses until Michael caves, reluctantly heading to his house. Luke slumps upstairs to the bathroom where he checks the damage to his face. He presses his fingertips to his tender jaw; it looks like it'll bruise but there aren't any cuts from rings or anything so he considers it a minor wound. Even so, his hands shake as he washes his face and brushes his teeth, and he can't stop himself from crying. He's not in pain, just shaken. It's been a long time since he's felt this small.

He changes into some comfy clothes, wipes away the few stray tears lingering on his cheeks. When he enters his room, he checks Michael's room out of habit. The lights are off and the window's closed, but still there's a paper plane resting on top of a pile of forgotten laundry. He unfolds it carefully, unsure as to what Michael could possibly have to say.

' _I love you_.'

It should make him happy, but it doesn't. It twists something awful inside him, and he wants to scream. He rips up the note, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces until they're covering the floor. A part of him regrets it instantly because even if it's a pity 'I love you', even if the words aren't true, he still wants to be able to read them over and over again. A larger part wants to cry some more, so he does, crawling into bed feeling raw and cut open.

*

He doesn't go to school on Monday, not to avoid the bullies but to avoid Michael. The shreds of the note still litter the floor and every time he sees them he feels sick. He wants to believe Michael loves him – and maybe he could, if they kept this up. But this 'I love you' feels cheap and insincere, a cop-out attempt to make Luke feel better. He hates it, and he hates Michael for putting him in this position.

Another airplane arrives in his room that afternoon. Luke watches it float unassumingly through his window and land gently at the foot of his bed. He doesn't read it, doesn't even pick it up, just lets it sit there, forgotten.

When he eventually does go back to school, he keeps avoiding Michael. It's a shitty thing to do, leaving things unresolved like he is, but they weren't really anything official. He hides in his spot in the library and takes the long routes to his classes to avoid seeing him in the halls. For once, he's glad they don't have classes together because that's one less thing to worry about. He avoids Calum and Ashton for the most part as well, just to be safe. He's not sure if they can still be friends without seeing Michael. He hopes so.

*

They come every afternoon, like clockwork. He ignores every one of them, buries them under clothes, kicks them under his bed. He doesn't want to look at them, let alone read them. He never responded to them before so he's not sure how long it will be until Michael gets the hint and stops sending the stupid little paper planes. He hopes it's soon.

*

It's not soon. It's almost a month before the notes stop, longer before Calum and Ashton approach him in the library.

“He's miserable,” Ashton tells him. Luke doesn't say anything. Guilt clenches his heart but he pushes it down.

“Seriously, man, what happened?” Calum asks. 

“Nothing,” he says, and goes back to his books, to the comfort of being alone. Calum opens his mouth, eyebrows pinched, prepared to demand answers, he's sure, but Ashton just says, “Okay” and gives his shoulder a squeeze before leading Calum out, leaving Luke to cry a little in his corner of the library in peace.

*

He let's himself miss Michael, even though he has no right to. He ended things; this was his choice. He knows he's putting himself through unnecessary pain, that they could've worked this out if he'd made the effort. But any time he thinks about it, there's the asshole from the party snapping his fist into his jaw, there are the jeers and the demeaning comments and everything horrible that followed any shred of happiness he's allowed himself to have. And it all ends with that stupid, stupid 'I love you,' stuck in his brain, and he feels sick all over again.

He wants to hate Michael. It would be so much easier if he hated him.

*

Almost two months after their... break up, he guesses, Michael almost breaks his window trying to toss a tin can through it.

There's a persistent tapping on his window for near ten minutes that he ignores, figuring it's just a bird or the wind smacking something into the side of the house. It stops soon enough, and he pretty much forgets about it until a few minutes later when a huge _thwack_ followed by a loud clattering snaps his gaze to the window. Michael's hanging half-way out his window, trying to quickly pull up what looks like an empty coffee tin attached to a long piece of string. He catches Luke's eye once the can is back in his room, blushing furiously but sets his face determinedly and mimes opening the window. He's not sure whether he's just a masochist or too curious for his own safety, but either way, he finds himself sliding the window open and getting his first good look at Michael in several weeks. 

“What are you _doing_?” he asks.

“You wouldn't respond to my notes,” Michael says like it's the most obvious answer in the world.

“So you try to bash my window in?” He sticks his head out and twists around to inspect the damage. For the most part, everything is fine, just a few scratches where the tin connected with the glass. “Seriously, what the hell?”

“I thought we could talk.” He holds two cans up, connected to each other with a piece of string that looks long enough to stretch between they're houses. 

“Through a coffee tin?”

“Yes?” he says sheepishly. “I thought it would be, I don't know, nostalgic, to make, like, walkie-talkie things. You know, like from when you were little.”

“I'm pretty sure those things don't work.”

His arms drop to his sides, and he tosses the craft away uselessly. “Yeah, you're probably right. But it got you to talk to me, at least.”

“Right,” Luke says, suddenly very awkward. He straightens, dipping back into his room. “If that's it, I'm going to get some sleep –” He begins shutting the window.

“No, wait!” Michael cries, flailing his arms in front of him. “Just, wait. Can we please talk?”

“We just did. We are, right now,” he replies. He knows he's being a dick, but he doesn't really care, just wants to end this conversation quickly.

“Luke.” His tone drops, and it makes something unpleasant churn in his stomach and turn his eyes back to him. “Please.”

He sighs, settling his hand on the sill. “Okay.”

Michael's face lights up, making Luke feel worse. “Can we talk, um, closer? Like, meet me out front?”

He agrees and a few minutes later, they're facing one another, under the same streetlight they almost kissed under all that time ago. It's stupid of him to feel nostalgic about a streetlight, but he does.

Before Michael can say anything, Luke's uttering, “There's nothing to talk about.”

Michael's face twists, more frustrated than angry. “What do you mean 'there's nothing to talk about?' You pretty much disappeared after I –” He clears his throat, suddenly embarrassed. “After the party,” he finishes.

“I...” He takes a moment to gather his thoughts. He hadn't bothered to come up an excuse. Honestly, he never thought Michael would want to speak to him again after their abrupt ending. He figures anything he says will be shitty so the least he can do is try to put all the blame on himself, where it belongs. “I just needed some time.”

“Time for what?”

“I don't know, just time.”

“Away from me?” he asks, and his voice is so small.

He should say yes because maybe that will hurt him enough to stop trying. But Luke's selfish when he says, “No”, equally as small and astronomically more ashamed.

“Was it the note?” Michael says after a moment. “Was it too soon? Did it freak you out? It kind of freaked me out to say it – or write it, I guess, but I couldn't not say it anymore.”

“What?”

Michael ploughs on, basically ignoring him. “I just felt like you should hear it – that you should know that I, um, love you.”

And he can't help it; he can't help but challenge him because at the time it had seemed like such garbage, a fake 'I love you' meant to bandage the hurt in lieu of addressing the fucked up situation Luke had been dealing with. It's harder to believe that with Michael in front of him, looking so damn sincere and honest. “Do you really?” He sounds more accusatory than he'd like.

“Of course,” he answers immediately, but it seems almost too fast, a knee-jerk reaction. It sounds like what he's supposed to say, not what he wants to. “Christ, I sent you dumb paper planes with stupid little notes to get your attention.” He shakes his head as he continues, surprising Luke. “You think I did that because I didn't _like_ you?”

“Like and love are two pretty different things.”

“Yeah, I guess, but I... I don't know if I ever just liked you.” And he locks eyes with him, looking shaky and terrified. “Because, like, basically the moment we started hanging out I was thinking, 'Shit, I _really_ like this guy way more than I probably should considering we barely know each other.' And then you went to the tattoo shop with me that night and –” He pauses, scrubbing a hand over his face. “God, this is so embarrassing. You held my _hand_ and I just knew, you know? Like, I was ready to say it that night and we hadn't even kissed or gone on a date or done anything remotely close to a relationship but I was fucking _ready_.”

All of this is too much for him. A large part of him is telling him it's too good to be real, that no one is this genuinely _sweet_ , that someone would willingly care about him this much. 

“Maybe that's a bit much, but it's true,” Michael continues quietly. “I'm really fucking smitten with you, Hemmings.”

He doesn't say anything to that, can't think of anything. He just processes, sifting through the information. 

“I'm still not going to kiss you in public,” he eventually blurts. Michael's brow furrows as he barges on, even though his mind is warning him to stop. “That's, um, that's something that'll probably take me some time to get used to.”

“That's okay,” he says, nodding carefully.

“And we can't, uh, cuddle? In public either, if that's okay. Just hand-holding or something. Because I know for the most part the world doesn't care that I like guys but I've had a group of people telling me the opposite for a really long time, and it's fucked me up so. Yeah.”

Michael reaches for him, wraps his hand around his arm and lets it slide down to his wrist. “I'm okay with that.”

“And telling me 'I love you' isn't going to fix me.”

“That's not what I meant when I said it,” Michael says quickly, staring deeply at him. “I promise I meant it. I promise.” 

“Okay,” Luke breathes out shakily.

“Okay?” Michael repeats. He sounds so surprised, like this wasn't the outcome he was expecting. It wasn't what Luke was expecting either but he's sick of being afraid, sick of not living. He's been waiting all this time for his life to get better so that _he_ could get better, and here's Michael, giving him a chance. Everything might end badly, but he thinks there must be some good times before everything goes to shit, and that maybe the good will be worth it.

“Yeah. Yes. Let's –” And then he kisses him because he wants to and he doesn't have anything else to say anyway. It's soft and clumsy but Michael doesn't seem to care as he trips over himself to reciprocate. He threads his fingers through the hair at the nape of Michael's neck like he does to him every time they kiss, and Michael keens, pressing into the touch. It feels good and it feels right to be kissing this embarrassingly, secretly romantic red-haired boy who sent Luke paper airplanes to get his attention and to tell him he loved him. Who cares if they sound like a cliche Taylor Swift love song? Luke kind of likes Taylor Swift anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> you can hit me up on [tumblr](http://peachflush.tumblr.com/) if you have any comments/questions or if you just wanna chat!


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